MAMA DON’T (SHARE)

Yesterday, Sunday, I found out that my son had his first cub scouts meeting on Wednesday.

Like, five days ago Wednesday.

And I just found out about it.

FUCK.

Now, I know I’m busy, and I sometimes forget things, like, say, my own lunch, but I don’t forget shit like my son’s first cub scout meeting.

Nope.

Because he’s my son. Mine. My child. And his sister? Also MY child. My job. Me. I handle all the kid things. ME. I do them. By my damn self.

Except now I don’t.  

I’ve had an ex-husband for over five years, and for most of that I was rolling 100% solo. There was no co-parenting, no shared decision making. Just one chair filled at parent-teacher conferences, just one seat in the stands at the soccer game. Just me, and my kids. Continue reading

FEEL AGAIN

For my whole life, as long as I can remember, in the entire history of “Michelle Does Exercise,” I’ve been drawn to heat.

Fire. Intensity. Sweat.

If I ran, I ran as fast and as far and as often as I could. I’d run a 5k, fly somewhere and run four legs of a 200 mile relay then come home and knock out an obstacle race the next weekend.

If I lifted, I lifted as much as I possibly could, as quickly as I was able to, and with very little aptitude at form. Just do it. Get the weight up. Finish the task. Wipe the sweat. Cover the blisters. Repeat.

If I practiced, I practiced expansively. For every pose offered, I’d go as deep and far as I knew how, and if I didn’t know how, I’d try anyway until I could. I’d suggest others take rest when they practiced, and refuse to offer my own body that same reprieve.

I’d warm up for practice with a workout and chase it with a run. Because… I could? Because it was a storyline I felt safe in repeating.

“I’m tough. I’m strong. I am not a quitter. I got this. Pain is just weakness leaving the body. . .”

Only, actually, pain was my body, telling me when it was weak.

Continue reading

ME, MYSELF, AND I

Tuesday, 9:15 pm., January of the New Year.

Me: Various sighs, groans, furrowed brows and a giant flop on the couch.
My husband: raised eyebrow, turn of the head, “what’s up babe? What’s coming up for you?”
Me: glare. Then a loud, overstated,
“IT’S AFTER 9PM, I’VE BEEN UP SINCE 6 AND IT’S THE FIRST TIME I’M SITTING DOWN ALL DAY AND DOING SOMETHING FOR ME AND NOT SOMEONE ELSE!”
Insert long pause here as I realize two things.
  • I’m throwing a tantrum. Like my seven year old, who, coincidentally, is also too old and too verbally skilled to be throwing tantrums.
  • The person responsible for this reality is, um, well, me.

 

 

I seem to have misplaced my reset button these last few months. My daily time-out has been cancelled, my movement break on hiatus, my life force source in dormant mode. Continue reading